Devil's Highlander

He'd be damned if he let her risk her pretty hide down at the Aberdeen docks. But he was tired. Tired to his bones in a way that had naught to do with any physical exertion. He refused to let her go with him in the morning, but he'd not fight that particular battle with her just then.

“Ree.” He let himself say her nickname, low and intimate, and it felt illicit on his tongue. Apparently there were a few things he was incapable of fighting that night.

“Cormac.” She watched him expectantly, her chin jutted high, and it reminded him of the girl he'd adored. But there was nothing girlish about the way her shawl slipped further from her shoulders.

He couldn't stop his eyes from grazing down. With the firelight behind her, Marjorie's legs were outlined clearly through her gown, nude flesh beneath gossamer white. His groin tightened further. Clenching his teeth, he looked back at the fire. “Good night, then.”

“Good night, Cormac,” she whispered softly and drifted from the room.

He stared at the flames, listening to Marjorie's light tread on the stairs. He stared long after she'd have gone to bed. Staring at the fire reminded him of who he was. Of his mistakes, of his sins. Of what he was incapable of having.

Most importandy, staring at the fire kept him farther away from the temptation waiting upstairs. A beautiful woman, who'd be a balm to his soul and a spur to his loins.

A temptation he feared he was neither strong enough nor brave enough to withstand.

Chapter 8

“How does this… ? Fiona, do you know… ? How do you… ?” Marjorie wriggled, trying to hike Declan's breeches up over her hips. She finally just flopped onto the bed, scooching her bottom into the seat.

The maid stepped back, looking disgruntled that her bed-making progress had been interrupted. “I wonder how much of a gentleman your Cormac is.”

“Got it!” Ignoring her comment, Marjorie popped up and bounced on the balls of her feet. “Oh, Fiona, this is lovely. So freeing. Is this what it feels like to be a man, I wonder?” She marched a few steps in place, lifting her feet high off the ground. “All women should be allowed to wear trews.” The maid shook her head disapprovingly. “What kind of gentleman allows a woman to wear his trews? No gentleman, I say.”

“Oh, pish. You're too young to be such a wet rag.” Marjorie wound her hair into a loose bun. “Besides, they're not Cormac's trews. They belong to his brother.”

“But what sort of gentleman encourages a lady in his care to stroll about town like a common… commoner? 'Tisn't seemly.”

Marjorie's hands froze over her head. Fiona had been her maid since they were young girls, and so she allowed many liberties. But this was approaching the line. “It isn't town,” she said warily. “Just down to the docks. And Cormac's not encouraging me.”

“What business do you have down at the docks that you need to dress as a boy? And… wait.” Fiona aggressively plumped a pillow. “Does Cormac even know what you're about?”

“Well, he's going to the docks, and I'd like to go with him. But if he says no, he can't stop me from following.”

She heard Fiona gasp, and Marjorie sighed. She shouldn't be telling her maid so much. “You don't need to know any more than that. It's a private matter.” She switched her focus to tucking her hair beneath a man's tartan bonnet. “There!”

“Not my business, she says.” Behind her, Fiona snapped the bed cover, an indication of her pique. “It's unsafe.

What would your uncle say if he found out?”

“Don't be silly. I'll be completely safe.” Marjorie put her hands on her hips, studying her front and sides in the mirror. She'd bound her breasts as best she could — it wasn't perfect, but the man's shirt and vest did a good job concealing her form. “I think I'll pass. What do you think? Do I pass for a lad?” Fiona made a choking noise. And then, realization washing over her face, she asked slyly, “Is this about that boy who went missing?”

“I'll just have to imagine that's your assent.” Marjorie strode to the door, feeling lighter, unencumbered…

free. Halfway out, she paused, turned. “And Fiona. I'll have you know, Cormac is every bit the gentleman.” She descended the stairs with a smile on her face. Dawn was just beginning to warm the sky, and she felt her way down, navigating the old steps through the gray half-light.

Reaching the landing, she stopped to adjust her outfit. She'd never thought herself overly curvy before, but the boxy trews were intended for someone with the silhouette of a tree. She plucked at the seat. The feel of such sturdy fabric between her legs was strange and uncomfortable, almost a transgression. Wiggling, she tugged them down, pulling them as low on her hips as she reasonably could.

The movement loosened the strips of woolen cloth she'd used to bind her breasts, and they tickled, making her senselessly itchy. She swayed a bit, jiggling her torso, tiying to chafe the fabric along her skin. She felt a breast begin to slip free.

“Criminy.” She smoothed her hands up her sides and along her breasts, trying to settle herself back in place.

She frowned at the results. She'd never make it to the docks if she needed to stop every five minutes to readjust.

The sound of metal scraping on stone came from above. She looked up, startled. Cormac stood there, staring daggers down at her. He'd fastened a sword at his waist, and it rasped along the narrow stairway.

“You startled me,” she said, a hand still clutched at her breast. “Losh, Cormac, where did you get that sword?”

“Where did you get those clothes?” Anger was plain in the set of his jaw, and waves of power rolled from him, as if he'd summoned some dark force to him, all vigor and strength.

A frisson of excitement shivered through her.

“I borrowed them from Declan.” The statement was met with grim silence. “Your brother? Remember?”

“Would that I could forget,” he grumbled.

Sensing a disagreement, she straightened her back, gathering her wits. Davie needed her, and she'd not fail him now. “I told you. I'm coming with you. I'm readying for the quays.”

“And I told you, you're not.” Every muscle in his body seemed to be flexed taut. Ready.

The thought flashed to her that she'd chosen the exact right person to help her. She'd woken nervous of the prospect of trolling the docks. But this man would protect her. He'd know how to handle any trouble that might come their way.

“Then I'll simply follow behind.” The clock was ticking — they needed to find Davie fast, before whatever ship held him sailed away, if it hadn't already. The thought sent black spots across her vision. She turned and strode to the door, lest her knees buckle beneath her. “Two pairs of eyes are better than one. Davie is my lad to look after, and look after him I shall.”

“You're staying,” Cormac snarled.

She stopped in her tracks. “No, I am not.”

“I'll be damned if any harm comes to you. How am I to sniff around the docks while keeping an eye out for your safety?”

“I don't need a nursemaid, Cormac.” Setting her shoulders down and back, she spun to face him. “I will absolutely not stay here whilst you gad about the docks in search of a boy you wouldn't even recognize.”

“You… you… “

She stared. “I what?”

“Och, woman, you try me. Listen to reason for once, would you? You need to be safe.”

“You're the one with the great, big sword,” she said with mock innocence. “Won't I be safer with you?”

“Aidan wasn't safer with me.” The retort cracked rapidly from his mouth but then hung frozen in the air.

As sharp as any blade, his words gutted her. It came down to Aidan. Always Aidan.

Blame. Distrust. This was what it was all about. Marjorie had failed the boys so many years ago. Cormac feared she'd fail him once more.

“But—”

“Enough,” he barked, cutting her off before she could speak. He hissed an exhalation, considering her. “I suspect I could tie you to a chair, and you'd still find a way to follow me to the docks.” Cormac could blame her all he wanted, but Davie was her responsibility. Davie was all that mattered. “I suspect I would.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” she repeated, giving him a triumphant nod. She turned to the door and was stopped by his hand on her shoulder. The heat of his touch imprinted upon her.

Cormac flinched away as though burned. “You may come. But you will not go dressed… like… that.”

“Dressed like what?” She put her hands on her hips. The gesture had the unfortunate effect of straining the buttons along the front of her vest. Marjorie kept her voice steady, despite the furious blush she felt suffuse her entire face. “I'm pretending to be a boy.”

His eyes flicked to her chest for the barest moment. “If you pass for a boy, I'm the king of England.”

“This is my disguise, and I think it a very clever one.”

“Clever?” His eyes went to her legs, and his whole body seemed to stiffen. “You can see… “ The feel of his eyes roving over her so boldly made her insides go weak. “See what?” she asked, her voice grown unintentionally husky.

Does he like what he sees?

“Your… legs. One can imagine… “

She became overly conscious of the trews. She'd felt so free before, but all she felt now was the fabric hugging tight between her thighs. “Imagine what?”

“One can imagine a lass getting her own self taken, wearing such a thing,” he said, his voice finally finding its strength. “I'd never dreamed… “

“It's a disguise.” Marjorie raised her chin high.

“It's indiscreet.” He turned his back to her and seemed to be adjusting his sword belt. “Go and change.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">